Be in my Eyes, Be in my Heart
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: After a close call on Dean's life, the brothers and Cas quickly discover that somebody has it out for Dean... Part of my Wyoming series. Follows "Mama Put my Guns in the Ground," "Blessed Are the Pure in Heart," "Gimme Shelter," and "Comfort and Reassurance." No slash. Passionate friendship between Sam and Dean, Dean and Cas. Pretty light, nonromantic Dean/OFC and Sam/OFC.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Finally getting around to another installment of this Wyoming universe. I'm fond of it. Especially after the first half of Season 8, with all that tension between Sam and Dean... Here's hoping the rest of the season brings them together again.

No slash intended. Part 2 coming soon.

* * *

Be in my Eyes, Be in my Heart

Part I

* * *

Sam's listening to Dean's heart. Big, heavy head on brother's chest. Dean's swept back Sam's mane of hair and has it gathered in his hand. Other hand on Sam's back. Sam's hand loose on Dean's bicep. Dean's heart beats steady in Sam's ear, and Sam closes his eyes to feel it with his whole body, feel the rhythm of air flowing in and out his brother's lungs, the rise and fall of Dean's chest beneath him. If Sam listens long enough, he'll slip into a kind of trance, into a level of consciousness where there's no thought, just him and Dean.

Dean rakes his fingers through Sam's hair from the scalp, and Sam opens his eyes again.

"You asleep, Sammy?" Dean says, the sound of his voice echoing through his chest.

"No," says Sam. "I thought you were."

"Almost."

"Want me to get up?"

"You're fine."

"Not too hot?"

"Comfortably warm," says Dean with affection.

"You can breathe okay?"

"You ask me that every time, and every time, the answer's yes."

"Just making sure," says Sam.

They do this on a fairly regular basis: cuddle. The heart listening's less frequent. It's something they tend to want when they're feeling vulnerable for some reason, when one wants the visceral reassurance that his brother's alive and well and here with him.

This time, it was a car bomb at the garage where Dean works. Sam didn't know anything on his way to the clinic, just that there had been an explosion and his brother was taken in. He had forgotten what that kind of raw terror felt like. From the moment he got the phone call from Lou's wife at the hardware store to the moment he saw Dean sitting on the bed in his clinic room, Sam was pure fear. He didn't even make it to the bed, just slumped against the door jamb of Dean's room and slid down into a crouch. Dean had to go to his side and hug him, as Sam's whole body trembled out of his control and his breath started coming in fast, short huffs and tears of relief flowed down his face and into his beard.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean murmured. "It's okay. Jesus. I'm fine. Hey. Look at me."

Sam did.

"I'm fine." Dean took Sam's hand and pressed it to his own cheek. His skin was warm under Sam's palm. A few minor scratches on the right side of Dean's face, but the older Winchester, up close, did look fine. Full of color, green eyes bright and reassuring. On his knees in front of Sam.

Sam pushed forward and wrapped his brother in a crushing hug, then pulled back just enough to take Dean's head in both hands and smash a kiss into Dean's forehead. Cas showed up a minute later, breathless, looking down at them and saying, "Dean?"

The angel drove them home because he didn't trust either brother behind the wheel in the state they were in. That was an hour ago. The brothers have been in Sam's bed since. Dean's clothes still smell faintly of smoke and fire, that smell that's been following them around since November 2, 1984. But Sam didn't want to wait for Dean to shower and change. Pulled his brother into Sam's room and onto the bed, face still sticky with dried up tears.

"You can't go back there, Dean," Sam says.

After a beat, Dean tells him, "It's my job, Sam."

"It's not worth your life."

"Not saying it is. But you're getting carried away. We just gotta find out what happened and why, fix it, and we're good."

Sam could start in on his theories about the bomb, but he doesn't want to ruin the mood right now. He doesn't want to fight with his brother. He just wants to be with Dean. Listen to Dean's heart.

"You're going to have to let Cas have me eventually," Dean says. "Poor guy."

"I know," says Sam. "But I'm not done yet."

Silence for a while. Then, Dean says, "Sometimes, I wish you didn't love me so much."

"Shut up."

"I mean, don't get me wrong…. I'm grateful. I just hate seeing you upset like that. Like this. All because of me."

"Then, don't get yourself killed."

"It wasn't on my list of things to do today, trust me."

"Dean," Sam says softly, almost whining.

Dean hushes him and starts rubbing his back. "I'm here, Sammy," he says.

And Sam shuts his eyes again because he doesn't want to look at the wall. He wants senses full of Dean. As big brother rubs his back the way he's been doing since Sam was a baby, Sam feels the ache of love in his own chest. He can't believe how many times he went through this when they were hunters.

* * *

Somebody called the tow company when they noticed the vehicle abandoned on the side of the road, not far from the outskirts of town. Wyoming plates. The doors were unlocked but no keys. It wasn't until Dean hotwired it in the big driveway at the garage and immediately recognized the tiny beeping of the detonated bomb that it became obvious something was wrong. Lucky for him, he dived as far away from the car as he could in the five seconds before it blew up, rolling on the concrete out of hunter's instinct.

Sam and Dean can't imagine anyone in town wanting to hurt them or anybody else, which leaves two possibilities. An outsider planted the car hoping to hurt someone random or somebody at the garage in particular, or they're dealing with the supernatural. Dean's inclined to think this is a hunt. Sam believes it's the doing of a malicious person.

"Nothing about this points to the supernatural," Sam argues over breakfast the next morning. Dean's got the day off and Sam's shift at the saloon doesn't start until seven PM. Castiel excused himself from the church daycare until tomorrow.

"Who plants a bomb in a car and leaves it randomly outside of town limits, on the off chance somebody decides to mess with it?" says Dean. "There was no way to know who would end up starting the car or when, which means the psycho just wanted to carry out a random act of violence? Why?"

"Who knows why? People kill strangers every day in this country. They don't need a reason."

"I'm not buying it. That crap may happen all the time in big cities, but in towns like ours? Come on. Most people don't even know we exist." Dean sips on his coffee, which he drinks black with one sugar. "I want to get over there before the sheriff does and run an EMF scan, see if I can find anything out of the ordinary. That's all."

"Well, you're not going alone," says Sam.

"Fine."

Cas glances from one brother to the other as he picks at his food.

Dean looks up at him. "What?" he says.

"Nothing," says Cas.

"Cas, what?"

The angel hesitates. "I don't want you to be mad at each other. Not after what happened yesterday."

Sam and Dean look at each other.

"We're not mad," Dean says gently. "We just don't see this the same way."

"I'm not trying to be pissed at Dean," Sam adds. "I'm just…. scared for him. I don't want him going anywhere near that car or the garage until we know what's going on. But if he wants to check it out today, I can't stop him."

Castiel nods.

They finish eating in silence.

* * *

Not much left of the car. It's black and charred, the concrete stained beneath it. It smells of fire and chemicals, even in the fresh, cool Wyoming air. Lou and his wife aren't around, which suits Dean just fine because he doesn't need to explain himself or his EMF meter. He scans the skeleton of the car but doesn't get a reading. Castiel watches him, hands in his jacket pockets, standing next to the garage office door. Sam searches the grounds for anything unusual, wishes he could get inside but Dean doesn't have a key.

"Sam," Dean calls.

"Yeah," says Sam.

"Come over here and tell me if you see anything. Extra pair of eyes never hurts."

Sam goes to the wreckage and starts working slowly around it in a circle, inspecting it for traces of a ghost or a demon or a monster. He shakes his head when he's done. "Nothing. It's burnt to a crisp. I don't know what could've made it through the fire, even if there was something. Wish we could find pieces of the bomb….."

"Yeah, me too." Dean grimaces at the car. "But I wouldn't know where to look and I'd rather not get caught tampering with the evidence."

"It must've been up front, if it was hooked into the ignition," Sam says.

"Maybe," says Dean, mapping out the anatomy of a basic sedan in his head and trying to imagine where the bomb would've logically been based on wiring. The front end of the car isn't significantly more burnt or damaged than the back. Even after a blast powerful enough to torch the whole vehicle, one end would've sustained more damage than the other if the bomb wasn't centered. Dean's no explosives expert, but that line of thinking seems logical to him.

"If you've exhausted the inspection, I'd like to go," Castiel says from a few yards away.

"Yeah," Dean says. "We're going." He sticks the EMF meter in his jacket pocket, keeps his hand around it, and meets Sam's eyes over the top of the wreckage. Sam's got that look: the one Dean's seen too many times in his life, a glassy mix of fear and sadness. Dean grimaces and starts heading back to the Impala, which he had to leave here overnight.

"I'm driving," says Sam, catching up to him.

Dean throws him the keys, no argument.

* * *

That night, sleeping alone in his bed, Sam dreams. The images are choppy, like a television with a faulty connection. What he's seeing isn't clear, but it feels familiar. Feels an awful lot like Hell. Fire, blood, a faint screech that can't be human. He wakes up unafraid, just a little shaken. Hasn't dreamed of Hell in years. He sits up in bed and freezes when he sees Lucifer in the corner where the door is, arms crossed.

"You didn't really think you could keep Dean safe by pulling out of the job, did you, Sam?" Lucifer says. "What makes you think monsters were the only things that wanted him dead?"

Sam can't find his voice. Can't feel his heart beating. He wants to scream for Dean but all he can do is stare at the face he hasn't seen in over a decade. That sly, muted smile. The skin peeling on the right side of his vessel's forehead.

Lucifer moves toward the bed, arms still crossed. He stands at the foot. The house is deadly quiet. The beginnings of a smirk in his mouth. "You can run to the ends of the earth, Sammy—but you can't protect Dean. This sweet life you got here? It's a fantasy. And it's going to go up in flames just like every other break you ever had."

Sam bolts up in bed, gasping for breath. His eyes search the room wildly but he's alone. He pulls the sheets and blanket open and slips out of his room barefoot, the floor cold beneath him. No way he's falling back asleep right now.

He peeks into Dean's room. His brother's asleep. That eases some of the tension in his chest.

Sam silently moves to the front end of the house, past the big living room where Shooter's asleep on the buffalo rug. He heads into the kitchen, for the liquor cabinet. Pours himself a generous glass of whiskey and sits down at the table. He wonders if Castiel is asleep next door. He doesn't actually know how much the angel sleeps. He could go over there to talk, but he doesn't want to risk waking up the angel if Cas is asleep.

"Hey."

Sam twists around in his chair at the sound of Dean's gravelly voice. His brother's standing in the threshold between the kitchen and the hallway. Dean shuffles toward the table and sits across from Sam, still sleepy.

"Did I wake you up?" Sam says, truly sorry.

"No, I woke up on my own..." Dean always did have a sixth sense about his brother. His brow creases with a frown when he sees Sam's glass. "Dude. Are you drinking?"

"Yeah."

Dean lifts his eyebrows. "At three o'clock in the morning?"

Sam doesn't answer or look at Dean because he knows he can't bullshit him on this one.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, a little more awake now.

"Yeah," Sam says. "It was just a bad dream."

Dean pauses. "Haven't had one of those in a while. Want to talk about it?"

Sam really doesn't. He knows it wasn't real, just his stupid subconscious fears coming through in the most terrifying persona his mind can imagine. He doesn't want to freak Dean out. Or let on that maybe Sam's fear is about more than just the car bomb. He sips on his whiskey.

Dean leans all the way back in his chair and sags down into the seat with his heavy, big brother sigh, right arm hooked over the chair's top. "Sam," he starts. "Don't make this whole car bomb thing bigger than it is. All right? It was scary, but nothing happened. We don't know if it was even meant for me or not. Everything's going to be fine. Either we'll get to the bottom of it or the cops will."

Sam stares down into his glass. "I know," he says quietly.

"Yeah, you know, but you're not over what happened."

"It happened two days ago, Dean! Not even."

"Yeah, and I didn't even get hurt. What happened to rolling with the punches and keeping our cool? You've let a lot worse than this go as soon as you saw I was in one piece."

"I'm not a hunter anymore, Dean," Sam says, looking into his brother's eyes. "We aren't hunters. We have a life now. A life where we aren't supposed to worry about getting killed prematurely."

"We'll always be hunters," says Dean. "Til the day we die. Just because we aren't out there doing the job, doesn't mean we're different. We got enough books and weapons in this house for a friggin' army of hunters, in case you forgot."

Sam drinks until he drains his glass, as Dean looks away. Sam gets up to pour himself a little more whiskey, then pauses with his hands flat on the counter top, shoulders hunched around his neck and head bowed.

"You're used to safety," Dean says. "I get it. I am too. And we're still safe, Sam."

"You don't know that," Sam murmurs.

Another beat of silence. "Keep your fear proportional. That's all I'm saying."

"You could've died. I think my fear's pretty damn proportional, Dean."

"Sam, after everything we've been through, you should be less afraid of death than anyone on earth. I wonder if it'll ever even be permanent for us."

"Don't be stupid," Sam says softly. He pours a little whiskey into his glass.

Dean stands up after a moment—goes to wrap his arms around Sam's chest from behind him, lays his head on Sam's shoulder. Sam's whole body tenses up, then deflates like a pierced balloon. He closes his eyes, feels Dean warm and solid on his back, holding him up. When he finds his voice, it's a whisper: "We're supposed to make it just like everybody else. We're supposed to get old and be happy all the way there and die when our bodies give out. We're in our forties, Dean. I'm not losing you for another forty, God damn it. I'm not."

"I know, Sammy," Dean says. "You won't."

* * *

Short shifts all around on Friday.

Lou lets Dean off at the garage around noon, and Dean only goes after he's done what he can to convince his boss there's something else he could do. "Let me scrub out those stains," he says to Lou, eyeing the black burn marks in the driveway where the wrecked car used to be.

Lou shakes his head. "Lorraine'll do it."

"Aw, Lou, you can't let her clean that up. Gimme half an hour, I'll get it done."

Lou wags his hand in a "get lost" motion. "Go on, Dean. Have a good weekend."

So Dean puts on his leather jacket over the mostly clean jumpsuit he's wearing, gets into the Impala, and goes west deeper into town.

The children at the parish daycare always get out early on Fridays, right after lunch. They're already snapping the buttons on their puffy jackets when Dean steps in. Cas meets his gaze with those bright blue eyes, standing at the back of the room with Darlene, the pretty twenty-nine year old redhead who works at the daycare with him. Dean still can't tell, after near five years, whether she thinks he's too old for her or not. He's just shy of two decades older, by three or four years. Hell, he can't decide if he's too old for her either.

Dean smiles a little at Cas and waits by the door as the kids line up, a few of them going over to Cas and Darlene for hugs. Even Dean has to admit it's cute, how sweet on Cas the three and four year olds are. He has yet to figure out how the angel went from clueless to kiddie whisperer in a matter of a year or two.

"Hi, Dean," Darlene says as she and half the kids reach him at the door and she starts guiding them outside. There's a small red bus idling on the curb outside, ready to take them home.

Dean nods with a smile.

"Good to see you well. I heard about what happened."

"I'm fine," he says. "Good to see you too."

She steps out into the chilly air.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" Cas asks, rounding up the last of the children.

"Lou let me off for the weekend. I couldn't tell if he was being nice or just wants more alone time at the garage."

"Are you going home?"

"No, that's why I swung by. Thought I'd see if you want to hang out in town a while. Maybe catch up with Sam whenever he's off."

"He's usually done at the store by one o'clock on Fridays," Cas says.

Dean follows him outside, and Cas locks up the daycare. He and Dean stand side by side near the door, until the bus pulls away and into the road, Castiel waving back at a few of the children who wiggle their hands at him. They watch Darlene walk to her car, hands in the pockets of her bright red coat.

"She seeing anybody?" Dean asks, jutting his chin out in her direction.

"Dean," says Castiel with a tone that's a little chastising but mostly warm.

"What? I'm just curious."

They take the Impala down the road to the hardware store and wait outside, leaning on the trunk of the car with hands in their jackets, until Sam comes out at 1:05. They decide to walk two blocks to the Miracle Diner and have lunch. They order coffee for the table, orange juice for Cas, eggs and toast and sausage and blueberry pie for Dean, tuna melt and a side of cherry tomatoes for Sam, turkey BLT and hash browns for Cas. The three of them tucked up into a window booth, Sam and Dean next to each other and Cas across from them. Sam and Dean knock their inside legs together under the table, just to touch. They're hip to hip, and it's comforting.

"More coffee for you boys?" their waitress asks when she stops by their table.

"No, thanks, Pat," Sam says with a friendly smile.

"But we could use some water," says Dean.

"No problem," she says. Already halfway to behind the counter, she asks, "How's that pie, Dean?"

"Awesome. Thank you."

"Did the sheriff call?" Castiel asks the brothers.

Sam and Dean shake their heads. They gave the sheriff's office their home number and both cell numbers; they're supposed to be notified of anything the cops find about the bombing.

"Probably on Monday then," Castiel says, finishing the last of his hash browns and sipping his juice.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam says quietly.

Dean gives a look but it's a brief one. The waitress brings them a pitcher of ice water.

The brothers both look up when a stranger walks into the diner, the bell on the door tinkling. He's as tall as Sam, maybe taller, wearing a worn out trucker's cap, jeans over work boots, flannel buttoned over shirt and a sandy-colored jacket. He hasn't shaved in days. He has a thin face and dark look in his eyes. Must be Sam and Dean's age but looks older. His skin looks dirty and weathered. They watch as he sits down on a stool at the counter, far enough away from them that they can keep an eye on him without being too obvious.

Sam's still wary of strangers after that bar brawl his brother was in a few months ago. Maybe it's that or maybe it's him on edge generally, but this guy makes Sam acutely aware of the fact that he's in between the stranger and Dean. He'd like to keep it that way.

Next to him, Dean's pretty relaxed but looks at the strange man with suspicion of his own. Cas sees his face and looks over his shoulder, then back at Dean. "What?" he says.

"Finish up," Dean says. "And we'll get out of here."

The brothers spot the stranger's truck parked right outside the diner, one they haven't seen before. A burly, black Ford between five and seven years old, by Dean's estimation. They walk back to the Impala and Sam's truck side by side in front of the hardware store. Cas gets into the Impala and rolls his window down, as Dean and Sam stand at their own driver's doors looking at each other over the Impala's top.

"Home?" Dean says to his brother.

"I got the bar at seven," says Sam. "But yeah. Let's go home."

Sam follows the Impala, the only two vehicles on the road for most of the thirty minutes to their property. He can see Dean and Cas through the rear window, and all he can think as they drive is how he'd like to take Dean and Cas, pack up the Impala, and go away for a week or two. Until that stranger's gone. Until the sheriff knows something about the car bomb. Until the knot in Sam's chest eases up.

* * *

He wakes up first on Saturday morning. That's fairly typical, but this time, Dean having more to drink last night than usual is a contributing factor. Sam thinks he wanted to loosen up, let go the last of the tension from surviving that bomb. Sam didn't protest, just served him his drinks. He didn't want Dean to come to the bar to see him through his shift, but Dean insisted. And if Sam knows Dean, it must've been because of that stranger. Dean's protectiveness doesn't always beat out Sam's, but it usually does.

Sam starts the coffee, drinks cold milk out of one of the glass bottles in the fridge, peers out the window above the kitchen sink and sees a cloudy sky. He feeds the dog breakfast and turns on the radio to listen to his favorite local talk station. The weekend morning host has a bit of a cowboy accent that Sam finds soothing. He does the dishes in the sink as he waits for the coffee and wipes down the kitchen counters. He's going to let Shooter outside to run around and relieve himself, and have his cup and a bite on the porch the same way he does every Saturday and Sunday if Dean doesn't beat him to it.

His cell phone starts to ring, and he doesn't recognize the number. When he answers the call, he's surprised to hear Kendall.

"Sam?" she says.

"Kendall?" he says, not too familiar with her voice.

"Yeah, it's me. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, not at all. I'm just getting ready to have breakfast. Dean's still asleep, are you trying to reach him?"

"No. No, I need to talk to you," she says.

Sam can't imagine why. "Okay. What's up?"

"I know what happened at the garage. Dean didn't tell me, but I heard it on the radio. I've just been so busy since Wednesday, I haven't had time to call him, and I was sort of waiting to see if he would call me….. You know how that goes."

"Well, I'm sure he planned on talking to you about it," Sam says in his best reassuring tone. "He probably just didn't want to scare you. He's fine. Made it out with a couple scratches, or I would've called you myself."

"Thanks," she says. "I figured his was fine. Was there any….. sign of who might be responsible?"

"No. We're waiting for the sheriff's office to get back to us, with anything they find. They took the car into possession on Thursday. Dean and I poked around before they hauled it away, but we didn't find anything either. Supernatural or natural."

She blows out a breath.

"Kendall, are you okay?" Sam says, standing with his mug of coffee in his free hand and hoping he doesn't wake Dean with the sound of his voice.

"Sam," she says. "I got a situation on my hands….. And I'm afraid it could blow back on Dean. I don't know if that bomb was my fault….. I hope like hell it wasn't. But it's possible. I can't deny that it's possible."

"What are you talking about?"

"If I'm straight with you, you gotta promise me you won't tell Dean what's going on."

"Kendall—"

"You have to promise, Sam. If I wanted him to know, I'd be calling him, not you."

Sam frowns. He really doesn't like keeping secrets from Dean. That's never gone over well for him. "All right. I promise."

"I hold a man to his word," Kendall says, and sounds so much like Ellen Harvelle in that moment, it hurts Sam's heart. She sighs and continues. "Years ago, I was seeing this guy. He was a part-time hunter."

Sam scoffs. "How the hell is somebody a part-time hunter?"

"Beats me. But he was, back then. Anyway, it wasn't serious to me. I liked him okay, the sex was decent and reliable. The only reason I kept seeing him as long as I did is because I prefer one steady man at a time over lots of one-night stands, if I can get it. You know?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam says sincerely. He's pretty sure Dean agrees too, these days.

"I'm only telling you this so you understand it wasn't emotional for me," says Kendall. "It wasn't romantic. It was sex."

"Okay. I'm listening."

"I thought he saw it that way too. But I was wrong, Sam….. Just when that natural drift started to really set in, with the time apart and whatever, he started calling me and leaving these angry messages. I had to hang up on him when I broke it off because he was out of control. He was such a jerk about it. I changed my number after that, just to avoid any more annoying calls, and never heard of him or saw him again….. Until Monday."

Sam starts in his chair. He's sitting at the kitchen table now. "He found you? At home?"

"Knocked on my front door at eight in the morning," Kendall says. "I almost had a heart attack."

"Geez. How the hell?"

"I don't know. It's not like he was a stand-out tracker. And I haven't been active on the hunting grid lately any more than you and Dean. I got a few friends from back in the day, but….. They don't know this guy. I can't figure it out."

"So what happened?" Sam says.

"I didn't let him into my house, for one. We talked on the porch. He said he never stopped thinking about me, always hoped he'd see me again, wanted to start over. He's quit hunting too, except an odd job every now and then. I couldn't believe it. Course, I turned him down. He tried arguing, but I wouldn't have it. He demanded to know if there was somebody else—as if that's any of his damn business—and eventually I said yes, just to get him off my back."

"Did you tell him about Dean?"

"I didn't use his name," Kendall says. "But shit, Sam. This guy shows up at my farm on Monday, and Dean finds that car bomb on Wednesday? Maybe it wasn't specifically meant for Dean, but….. I wouldn't be surprised if this son of a bitch is the one responsible for the bomb."

"Only good lead," says Sam.

"I don't want Dean to know because I don't want him getting involved. I can handle my own crap, Sam. Okay? I don't need your brother coming to my rescue. But if this dude really has a few screws loose and he finds out about me and Dean….. I'm afraid of what he might do."

"Kendall, you should be afraid for yourself. He knows where you live, you should have protection up there."

"I have a whole arsenal of protection, Sam. And I don't have a problem shooting him if I have to."

"Well…. I'd feel better if you had somebody up there with you. Anybody. You're always safe in company, when something's after you."

"If I decide I want a bodyguard, you'll be the first one I call," she says. "In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled. I'd tell you to watch your brother, but I know I don't have to do that."

"Hey, Kendall," says Sam. "You never told me this jerk's name."

"Jason Oldham. I'm sure you'll work your FBI magic on him by lunch."

Sam smiles, guilty. He thinks of the stranger at the diner yesterday and wonders. "Do me a favor?"

"What's that?"

"Give me a call tonight before you go to bed, just to check in. Or Dean. Until we're sure Jason's gone, just let us know you're okay."

"I guess I can do that," she says. "You keep me updated on the car bomb, if your brother decides not to mention it to me."

"Deal."

"All right, Sam. Take care."

"You too, Kendall."

"Give Dean a kiss for me," she says with a wink in her voice.

Sam almost huffs a laugh, as Kendall hangs up.

* * *

Dean's tuning up the Impala on Sunday morning, portable radio sitting on the cooler next to her front driver's side tire playing his kind of classic rock. The sun's shining, but it's just cool enough for his flannel over shirt. He has the sleeves rolled to the elbows, so he can work. He's in a good mood because it's sixty-something degrees outside, which reminds him of summertime. Singing the lines he knows in each song, humming through the ones he doesn't know.

Sam comes outside, stopping at the top of the porch steps and looking at his brother. "Dean," he calls.

Dean looks over his shoulder at Sam. "Yeah."

"Where's the dog?"

"Cas took him for a run. You get tired of the books yet, want to come join me in this fresh air?" Dean turns back around to face the open hood and the Impala's exposed engine.

"I could read on the porch, maybe," Sam says, smiling. "You talk to Kendall lately?"

"No, thought I'd call her tonight. Why?"

"Just wondering. You haven't been up to see her in a while."

"Yeah, well. She's busy, I'm busy, she's out of town, I'm getting bombed."

Sam's smile wilts. "That's not funny."

Dean glances back at him with a grin. "Lighten up, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head, good mood gone. "What should we do about that stranger?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"See what we can find out, I guess."

"Who knows, maybe he's already gone."

Sam wishes. It would put him more at ease. He looked up Jason Oldham in as many ways as he could, but the only photograph he could find was at least ten years old, maybe older. The man in the diner might've been him, but Sam can't be sure. He wants to call Kendall back and ask her what Jason looked like, but he feels like maybe he should wait until Dean talks to her, in case she decides to tell his brother her story.

Sam blows a sigh skyward with his bottom lip, sticks his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He feels more relaxed right now than he has since before the car bomb on Wednesday. Seeing Dean with the Impala, feeling the sun on his skin, the pleasant air, the music on the radio. Sam closes his eyes a minute and breathes. Maybe Dean's right. Maybe everything really is okay.

He looks at his big brother and says with the softness in him, "Hey, Dean."

"What?" Dean says.

Sam doesn't say anything right away, until Dean turns around again to look at him. Then, with seriousness, he says, "I love you."

Dean doesn't smile, just looks at him the same way he did when Sam first told him that after they moved into this house. It used to be that they never said it to each other. The words are flimsy; that was their reasoning. And they're brothers, not sisters. But Sam couldn't hold it back that summer evening, when he and Dean sat on the Impala's hood with a few cold beers, parked right about where she is now in front of the house. He'll never forget the way Dean looked at him in the first ten seconds after the words left Sam's mouth. Like he'd been waiting to hear Sam tell him all his life. Like he didn't already know.

"Love you too, Sam," Dean says, his voice a little deeper than it was a few minutes ago. And somehow, in that moment, standing in the pale sunshine, Dean's face looks the way it did when he was thirty. Sam can see it even under the beard.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Second part got here fast! Enjoy.

* * *

Part II

* * *

The sheriff calls Sam and Dean's house on Monday morning, before Dean leaves for work. Sam picks up the phone. The sheriff explains that he had the car wreckage transported to the police lab in Casper because the local lab's equipment isn't as sophisticated. One of the Casper techs just called him and said that the bomb was definitely homemade, using basic technology, not as crude as those manure bombs but still something anyone with rudimentary knowledge of explosives could put together using store bought goods. It looks like the bomb was attached to the underside of the vehicle, dead center, and the wiring strung into the dash and hooked to the ignition. They couldn't find any evidence of the bomber; the damage was too extreme. The sheriff says he's sending out a few of his men to the spot on the road where the vehicle was abandoned, see if they can find any clues about who left it there.

Sam thanks him, but he doesn't look happy when he hangs up. He relays the info to Dean.

"So it's basically untraceable. Great," Dean says, finishing the last of his coffee and setting the mug down on the kitchen table. "I'm going to work now."

Sam watches him shrug into his brown cargo jacket, the one with the flannel lining. Dean's not in the garage jumpsuit today, but jeans and a close-fitting sweatshirt. His hair's still damp from the shower, two shades darker than when it's dry.

"You got a shift at the store today?" Dean asks.

"One to close at the gun counter," Sam says. You can only buy guns until six o'clock on the weekdays; the hardware store itself closes at eight.

"I'll see you when you get home, then."

Sam holds out Dean's lunch cooler to him.

Dean takes it with a smile that's all him. "Thanks, missus."

Sam rolls his eyes and smiles because he can't help himself. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean says on his way out the door.

Sam watches from the window in the sitting room, as Castiel meets his brother by the Impala. Watches as the black car pulls away and disappears down the path leading from the house to the main road.

He calls Kendall on his cell phone, but after four rings, he gets her machine. _You've reached Kendall Page's farm. Leave your name and number, and I'll get back to you soon._

"Kendall, it's Sam. Just calling to check in….. Got a call from the sheriff but no good info. Let me know how you're doing. I'll be home alone until twelve thirty."

He hangs up, then calls Leah.

"Hello?" she says. Her voice sweet as a honeybee.

Sam lightens up. "Hey."

"Sam." She sounds happy to hear from him. It's been about a week. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Can you talk?"

"Yeah, I'm home today. Working tomorrow through Saturday." Leah's a librarian in Big Piney at the only library serving the Big Piney-Marbleton area. When Dean found out, he couldn't contain his glee because Sam with a librarian? How perfect is that?

"My shift at the store doesn't start until after lunch, so I've got the time too," Sam says. "Uh…. Did you—did you hear about what happened at Lou's Garage?"

"Oh, my God, Sam, yes. I'm sorry I didn't call, I don't want you to think I was being callous, I just knew that Dean was all right and wanted to let you call me when you were ready. In case you needed some time to be with your brother."

"It's okay. Thanks. I wasn't sure if you knew or not, and I guess it took me this long to call you because I had so much on my mind….. Dean's okay. He made it out with a few scratches."

"Thank God."

"He doesn't seem to think it's a big deal."

Leah pauses for a beat. "But it is to you."

Sam blows out a sigh. "A car bomb? Really? A friggin' car bomb?"

"I know," she says gently. "It's crazy."

"That-that isn't supposed to happen here. We're off the map, barely a thousand people in the two towns put together, and we haven't done anything recently to attract…. Violence."

"That's just it, Sam. Violence happens to innocent people for no reason all the time. It always has. Being a civilian's not a foolproof ticket to safety. I wish it was."

"I don't think it was random, Leah. I think that bomb was meant for Dean."

"Why? Who would want to kill your brother?"

"I don't know. I don't know, and that's what scares me most. But whoever left that car on the side of the road knew that the first place it might go was the garage in town. Chances of someone coming across it on foot and trying to hotwire it are slim."

"I guess you're right, but it still doesn't make sense," Leah says. "It can't be anyone in town. I mean, everybody loves your brother, who knows him. Unless he's done something to offend someone lately."

Sam shakes his head. "Not that I know of. Nothing that would make a decent person try to kill him like that."

"Have you considered the possibility that it might not have been…. Human?"

Sam told her about his past. Told her everything. And she believed him. Didn't run. Didn't look at him any different. It was the moment he knew she could be a real friend to him.

"Dean wanted it to be," he tells her. "But there's nothing to indicate the explosion was supernatural. The lab techs said there was a real bomb. We didn't find anything weird at the scene."

After a moment of silence, Leah says, "How are you, Sam? Really?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, even though Dean's okay…. You must've been terrified. If you're still shaken up, I don't blame you."

"Let me put it this way," says Sam. "I wouldn't mind coming over right about now and getting into bed with you. Not—not for sex, just…. You know."

"You can," she says, voice softer. "You always can."

Sam and Leah haven't had sex in a few months. They barely do. It was at least six months in between the last two times. She doesn't want it very often, and Sam's all right with that. Whenever they do, it doesn't feel like romance or lust or passion. It feels caring. Feels like two good friends looking after each other. Leah makes him feel cared for and safe. It was always the one quality in women Sam valued the most. He can blame Dean raising him for that.

"My whole life, all I wanted was safety," he tells her. "I wanted it so bad, I ran away from my family to get it, when I was eighteen. But the older I got, the more it felt like maybe I couldn't have it. No matter what I did or where I went."

"Oh, Sam," Leah whispers.

"And then we finally quit. We finally stopped hunting. We moved into this house, and I thought I had a real shot. That Dean and I had a real shot. We earned it"

"It wasn't something you ever had to earn. You and Dean always deserved to be safe."

Sam rubs at his forehead. "I thought we were, Leah. For the last five years, I've felt safe here….. Until now. Now, I don't know anymore."

"Sam—I know how scary it must've been for you, but you can't let this one close call destroy your sense of security. You and Dean_ are_ safe. You've got each other and people who care about you and you're not out there hunting anymore. You're as safe as anyone can be."

"I know," Sam says. "But I don't feel….. I need to know who planted that bomb. I need to know that person will never come back again."

"Well, you can't stay like this until you find out," says Leah. "I hope you do find the person responsible, but you might not, Sam. Either way, you can't let them steal your peace."

Sam doesn't reply, pursing his lips, one corner of his mouth twitching.

"So breathe, talk a walk, tell your brother what you're feeling. Let him be there for you. And come see me if you want to."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Sam smiles a little. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Leah."

She chuckles. "Get along just as well as you did before we met."

"Which wasn't that great."

"You've always had Dean, haven't you?"

"Yeah. But when he's the thing that's on my mind, it's nice to have someone else to go to. You know? Not to mention, sensitivity doesn't exactly come naturally to Dean."

"A man's not a woman, I guess," says Leah.

"No. Definitely not," says Sam.

"Listen, if you don't come see me today, how about some time this week? I miss you."

"How about I pick you up from work on Wednesday and take you to dinner?"

"I would love that. See you then. And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"If you need to talk again, don't hesitate to call."

"I won't."

They hang up. Sam sits at the kitchen table for a minute. He's got one of those feelings, about Kendall. Almost wants to drive up to her farm and make sure she's okay. But that might be awkward. He only called her forty-five minutes ago. Better wait until she calls him back.

He heads for his bedroom to change into workout clothes. He's in the mood for a long run.

* * *

Monday ends without a word from Kendall. Tuesday runs damn near out with no trouble, until around nine-thirty at night when Sam's shift at the saloon is almost over. Weeknights are pretty slow in comparison to Fridays and Saturdays, and he likes it that way, serving the blue collar regulars who aren't there to get to drunk, making conversation and taking it easy. Dean's with him tonight, which is unusual for a mid-week shift. He's sitting in his spot at the end of the bar nearest the door, elbows on the bar top, drinking one of the local beers on tap. He orders a cheeseburger for dinner and lets Sam steal a few fries. He chats with a few of the other guys at the bar, mostly innocuous stuff except a minute or two spent on the car bomb because somebody asks him. Dean doesn't miss the way Sam tenses up; he can feel it in the air without looking at his brother. He changes the subject as quick as he can.

The stranger walks in. Sam's face falls as soon as he sees him, and Dean turns around to look at what his brother sees. This time, the man's wearing a heavier coat with a fleece collar because the weather's back to normal for April, cold as balls at night but up above zero. Sam and Dean think they can feel the draft come in with the stranger, just for a second. Nobody else pays much attention to him, as he looks around the saloon while standing just inside the door, then slowly moves to one of the booths lining the front wall. Ramona, the hot waitress with thick curly hair and mocha skin, goes to take his order soon as he sits. The Winchester brothers stare.

"He's still here," Sam says.

"Yup," says Dean and turns around to face ahead. He sips on his beer.

Sam swallows. "Dean."

Dean looks at his brother.

"I got a bad feeling about him."

"I can see that." Dean peeks at the stranger again, then refocuses on Sam. "You know, not every stranger's bad news."

"You telling me you aren't getting a shady vibe from that guy?"

"He's on my watch list. But you oughta chill out until you have a real reason not to. I don't like it when you're high-strung." Dean drinks.

Sam looks at his brother. "Maybe you should go home."

"What? No."

"Dean."

"Sam, I did not suddenly forget how to defend myself, all right?"

"So you do think he's dangerous!"

"Holy crap, quit twisting my words around."

"Go home, Dean."

"No."

"God damn it—"

"If he's harmless, I'm not letting him ruin my evening just because you're paranoid, and if he's waiting to friggin open fire, I'm not leaving you alone with him. I'm staying until you're ready to walk out of here with me. End of story."

Sam bites back a growl at his brother and pours himself a shot of whiskey. Dean doesn't pay him any mind, just nurses his beer.

The stranger stays in his booth, back to the bar, until it's coming up on eleven and whoever's left starts to layer on their clothes, pay their bill, leave a tip, and walk out. Dean stays right where he is, not planning to move until Sam's done closing up the bar. Sam, who's been glancing the stranger's way every other minute since the dude walked in, stiffens up when the stranger suddenly leaves his booth and comes up on Dean. The only other man at the bar is already on his feet about to go. It's just Sam, Dean, Ramona, and the second waitress named Heather Ann. And the stranger.

"'scuse me," he says, as Dean turns his head to look at him. "You know this town pretty well?"

Sam can see the surprise quickly change to wariness on his brother's face, from the other end of the bar.

"You could say that," Dean tells the stranger.

"I'm looking for a Dean Winchester. You know who he is?"

A chill shoots down Sam's spine quick as lightning and curls into hot protectiveness. The gun hooked onto the underside of the bar is about three Sam paces away, if Dean's reflexes don't kick in for his own gun fast enough.

"I've seen him around," Dean says. "Don't know him personally, though. I hear he's a hell of a guy."

The stranger's face is dark. "You got an idea where he lives?"

"Uh…. Outside of town. Not sure exactly where. You a friend of his?"

"No," says the stranger. "He and I got unfinished business."

"What kind, if you don't mind my asking?"

Stranger pauses. He's speaking low, but Sam can still hear him, now the saloon's near empty.

"The woman kind."

Slight surprise flickers on Dean's face. "Well, I hope you find him."

"Me too."

The stranger turns away from Dean and walks out the door. Sam's body slackens, as Dean makes eye contact with him.

"He's the one who bombed you," Sam says, the second he and Dean are in the Impala and on the move. "That son of a bitch came here to kill you."

"You don't know that," says Dean. "The two aren't necessarily connected."

"Oh, come on!"

"I don't even know what he could possibly have against me. A woman? What, did I bang his sister ten years ago or something?"

Sam doesn't say a word but thinks: Kendall. The stranger has to be Jason Oldham. But she told Sam that she didn't mention Dean by name….. Was she lying? Or did Jason find out about Dean some other way?

"We've gotta kill him, Dean," Sam says.

"What?" says Dean, giving Sam a major frown. "Are you crazy?"

"He's going to hurt you if we don't kill him first."

"He's a person, Sam. We don't kill people."

"Unless we have to," says Sam. "And this time, we do."

"Or we talk to him and see if we can straighten this whole thing out like civilized human beings. What's gotten into you?"

Sam's voice has been steadily rising in volume, and now he's almost shouting. "He already almost killed you once, Dean! I'm not giving him another chance! I'm not!"

Dean's phone starts to ring. "Damn it," he mutters, digging it out of his jacket. "Hello? Kendall?"

Sam looks at his brother and knows instantly that something's wrong.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what?" says Dean. "Are you okay? All right, I'm coming up there. I'm coming, Kendall. Don't give me that _I'm a big girl_ crap. If you didn't want me to there, you wouldn't have called me. Just sit tight. We're already halfway home."

Dean hangs up and slips his phone back in his pocket.

"What happened?" says Sam.

"She was attacked at the farm. She doesn't sound good."

Guilt slithers into Sam's stomach like a black snake.

"What the hell is going on," Dean murmurs.

Sam doesn't answer.

Kendall's farm is twenty minutes north of the Winchester property. Dean makes it in ten, speeding, the only car on the road. Sam calls Castiel on the way and lets him know what's going on, in case the angel's watching for them. Dean pulls the Impala up the long driveway in front of Kendall's house and hops right out, not waiting for Sam. The lights are on inside. It's twenty degrees outside and there's a fog clinging to the trees surrounding the farm. Sam hustles after Dean, the two of them leaving trails of white breath in the air.

Kendall's got a shotgun in her hand when she answers the door. Dean wraps his arms around her right away, and she lets him. Sam locks the door behind him.

"Are you okay?" Dean says to her.

"I'm fine," she says. "I just got the jitters."

Dean pulls back to look at her face: she's beat up, swollen and bruised and scratched up, dried blood on her lip and around her left nostril. "That son of a bitch."

"I fought back. Sent him running. Only reason he hurt me is because I was in the laundry room when he snuck up on me. I couldn't get to any of my guns, until after we started throwing punches."

"Who is he?" Dean says in that voice, the one that's pure search and destroy.

Kendall shifts her eyes over Dean's shoulder to look at Sam. Sam looks back apologetically. Dean turns his head to look at his brother too.

"Let's sit down, Dean," Kendall says softly.

The brothers follow her into the kitchen. She and Dean sit at the table, while Sam makes tea. Kendall comes clean on the whole story, including her communication with Sam. Dean doesn't speak until she's finished, his jaw clenched so tight. Sam avoids looking at him as long as he can, afraid Dean'll be pissed or hurt or both that Sam didn't tell him about Jason.

"I asked your brother not to tell you," Kendall says. "I didn't want you getting in the middle of my business."

Dean glares at her. "Looks like it isn't just your business anymore."

"You be mad at me all you want. Just don't take it out on Sam because he respected my wishes."

"Some nut job comes to town who might've tried to kill me, and you decided to keep that to yourself? How is that acceptable on any level?"

"I wasn't sure, when I spoke to your brother, if Jason had anything to do with the car bomb. I wasn't sure until tonight. I have no idea how he figured out you're the man I'm seeing in between last Monday and Wednesday because I didn't tell him. But I told him tonight."

Sam's face falls. He's standing by the table now with the hot kettle in one hand, water already poured into each mug on the table. "Why?" he says and sits down in the chair between hers and Dean's.

"He wouldn't stop hurting me until I did," Kendall says, looking at him. "He demanded I tell him who I was fucking. He was angry by then. He wasn't at first….. He just grabbed me, scared me half to death. He tried talking nice, tried to convince me to take him back. It wasn't until I told him to get out of my house that he blew up."

"This ends tomorrow," Dean says. "I'm going to find him wherever he is, kick his ass, and make sure he leaves town in an ambulance, a cop car, or a bus to Maine."

"Dean—you have to be careful. And I don't just mean watching out for Jason. You don't want to get in trouble."

"I'll bury his body in the God damn woods if I have to, but he's never coming back here to torture us again. Do you hear me? Never. He doesn't get another chance to hurt you or me or my brother or anyone else we know."

Kendall reaches across the table and grabs Dean's hand in hers, looking at him with imploring eyes still shiny from when she cried before the brothers arrived. "I don't want you hurt or in prison," she tells him. "That's all I'm saying."

Dean looks down at her hand in his, scrubs his other down his face, closes his eyes and opens them again. Kendall takes back her hand and sips her tea. Sam's eyes move back and forth from her to his brother.

"We saw him at the saloon tonight," Dean says, calmer. "He must've come down right after he left you. He was looking for me."

"Do you think he knows what you look like?" Kendall asks.

"I don't know. All he'd find on the internet are old mug shots and police drawings in the FBI database. But those are like fifteen years old. I don't know if he'd recognize me now."

"I've got a feeling he did," Sam says. "He was just testing when he talked to you, see if you'd identify yourself or not."

"He talked to you?" Kendall says to Dean, surprised.

"Yeah," says Dean. "And for the record, I pretended to be someone else."

Kendall props both her elbows on the table and hides her face in her hands. "What do we do," she says, none of her usual confidence in her voice. "What do we do, boys?"

"I told you. I'm going to take care of it."

"We'll think of something," Sam amends. "Something that makes sense."

"You're the one who was telling me on the drive over here that we need to kill him, now you changed your mind?" Dean says.

"If we have to, we have to—but I don't want either one of us going away for murder either, Dean."

The three of them are silent for a while. They finish their tea and try not to make eye contact. When the mugs are empty, Sam gets up to collect them and wash them out.

"I don't want to leave you alone tonight," Dean says to Kendall when Sam has his back turned.

"Dean," she says, her voice tired. "I'm okay."

"Yours or mine. Pick one. But I'm keeping you company."

"Just go home and get some sleep. You have work tomorrow. I feel better now."

Sam turns around, leaning back against the sink with his hands curled over the edge. "I would rather you have someone to watch over you tonight too, Kendall. We don't know if Jason will try coming back."

Kendall looks at each brother with total reluctance, but Sam knows she's like Dean in this way: she'll pretend she doesn't want to be comforted even when she's desperate for it, just to come off strong. "Fine. We'll stay here."

Sam nods. Holds his hand out to Dean. Dean takes his keys out of his jacket pocket and gives them to Sam.

"Shoot me a text when you get home," Dean says. "Let me know you got there all right."

Sam shows himself out. He spends the dark, quiet drive home thinking about going back into town and finding Jason Oldham the only guest at the motel. Kill him in his sleep.

* * *

Cas is waiting inside the main house when Sam arrives. Shooter greets Sam at the door, there's a fire crackling in the living room that he can smell and hear and feel, and all of sudden, Sam's so glad to be in his own house, he might sob.

"Where's Dean?" Castiel asks.

"Staying with Kendall tonight," Sam says, dragging his feet down the long corridor leading to the bedrooms in the back of the house. He's got the dog in his left arm, held against his side. Castiel follows him to Sam's bedroom, where Sam puts the dog down and starts stripping off his clothes and dumping all but the jacket into the laundry hamper. Cas watches and listens inside the doorway, as Sam changes into pajamas and tells him everything. He's sitting on the side of his bed facing Cas by the time he's finished, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

"Are you really going to kill Jason?" Castiel says.

"I don't know," says Sam. "Do you think he'll back off otherwise?"

Castiel has no idea, so he doesn't answer. He leans his shoulder into the door jamb, arms crossed against his chest, watching Sam. It's almost two in the morning now. "You should get some rest, Sam," the angel says.

"I know. I'm beat, I just…."

"What?"

"I wish I was within Dean's reach. In case….. Just in case."

Castiel unfolds his arms. "Sam," he says.

"I know it's ridiculous," Sam says. "He's forty-five years old, he's just as good a fighter as I am, but I would still feel better if he were in the next room instead of twenty minutes and a phone call away." Sam buries his face in his hands again. "How fucked up am I?"

Castiel crosses the room to Sam, cups the back of Sam's head with his hand to make Sam look up at him. His blue eyes are gentle and compassionate. "You don't have to be ashamed of how much you love Dean or how afraid you are of losing him. If your positions were reversed, I think his need to protect you would be even more pronounced—and Dean's never made apologies for how he feels about you, has he?"

Sam smiles sadly. "No."

Castiel moves his hand to Sam's shoulder, gripping it snugly. "Everything will work out for the best. You have to believe that."

Sam nods.

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"

Sam pauses. "Yeah," he says. "I think I do."

He leaves to brush his teeth, and when he comes back, Castiel's already sitting in Sam's easy chair he dragged to the side of the bed. Sam turns out the light and gets into bed, lying on his stomach the way he usually does when he's sleeping alone. He's facing Castiel. He takes a breath and closes his eyes. Maybe he should feel weird with Cas sitting there watching over him, but he doesn't. He feels comforted. And when Cas starts to stroke over his hair, Sam relaxes. It isn't long before he's out.

* * *

The first thing Leah does when Sam comes to pick her up at the library Wednesday evening is give him a big hug. He melts right into it, eyes closed, breathing in her scent. Sugar cookies and lemon. She's dwarfed in his arms, her 5 foot eight delicate to his six foot five huge, but he feels like she's the stronger one as they stand there embracing. He hasn't even told her yet about Jason in the saloon and what happened to Kendall last night.

He drives them to the only Italian restaurant in Big Piney, where the desserts are the best items on the menu. The tables are dressed in stereotypical red and white checkered cloth. A mix of greatest Italian hits play softly on the stereo system. Only two other tables are occupied, one by a married couple in their fifties and the other by a young mother with a son no older than six. Sam orders the big antipasti salad and eats some of the garlic bread halfheartedly; Leah orders the capellini pomodoro and a Coke. When she points out that the salad's not a lot of food for him, Sam says he doesn't have much of an appetite.

She looks at him with dewy blue eyes and says, "Talk to me, Sam."

Sam tells her about yesterday, picking at his salad with his fork and only looking at Leah half the time. "Dean could get hurt or die," he says, looking up and into the distance. "And I'm the only one who's bothered by it. He isn't scared, Cas isn't scared, even Kendall….. Am I overreacting? I mean, have I become this….. hyper-nervous civilian who blows every bad thing out of proportion? Pain and death used to be our daily M.O. Why can't I get over this?"

Leah reaches across this table and folds her hand into Sam's. "You're not overreacting," she says gently. "Your brother's in danger. You have every right to be freaked out. Even overprotective. Sam, you've handled more in your life than anyone I've ever heard of. The fact that you aren't a walking poster boy for PTSD is a miracle."

Sam huffs. Dean had to work through some PTSD the first few years in Wyoming.

"You are so strong," Leah continues. "Sometimes, I remember everything you and Dean have been through, and I think, you two must be superhuman. You're amazing, Sam. And you'll get through this. You just have to be kind to yourself."

Sam meets her eyes. Curls his hand around hers a little. Sadness on his face. "Leah," he says.

"Yes."

"Will you be honest?"

"I'm always honest with you."

"Do you think I love my brother too much?"

Leah shrinks back just a little but doesn't let go of Sam's hand. "Oh, Sam," she says. "No, sweetheart. No. I've never thought that."

Sam looks at her with a streak of fear in his eyes. Fear of judgment. Their whole lives, he and Dean had never let ordinary people know about the inner workings of their relationship. Demons and angels had a pretty good idea but even they didn't know details. Sam didn't realize he and Dean had been actively concealing how they felt about each other from the world, until they settled down here together and had to see the same group of people for longer than a week. Until he got involved with Leah and until Dean met Kendall and they both had to explain to these women that the brothers weren't going to leave each other. It's just their luck that Kendall doesn't even consider her relationship with Dean romantic, and Leah's more interested in having a close friend than a serious lover, after losing her husband six years ago.

"It's okay," he says quietly. "You can tell me the truth."

"That is the truth," says Leah. "Sam—what you and Dean have….. I've never seen it before. It isn't average. It isn't—"

"Normal?"

"You know I hate that word. It isn't _common_. But that doesn't make it wrong. Your relationship is special. It's beautiful. And if it makes you happy, then there can't possibly be anything wrong with it for you. And it does make you happy, Sam. I've known you almost as long you've been here, and I've watched you get happier every year. It reminds me of what my marriage was like….. You find love like that….. you're blessed."

Sam barely smiles, looking down into his salad. "The one time he and I died and went to heaven and didn't come back with our brains wiped….. We met a friend of ours up there who knew his way around. This friend….. he basically said Dean and I are soul mates."

Leah smiles. "I can believe that."

"It just scares me sometimes," Sam says. "How much I…. love him, need him. How much he loves me."

"Big love can be scary," Leah says. "Especially the kind that's bigger than yourself. Maybe that's why most people never get near it."

Sam shakes his head in awe. "How do you just accept everything the way it comes? Most women would've run away from me the second I said my brother comes first."

"I'm not most women." A smile twitches in the corners of her mouth. "And you aren't most men."

Sam brings her hand up to his lips and pecks the back of her fingers. She smiles outright as she takes her hand back.

"I'll never understand it," Sam says in between bites.

"What?"

"How Dean and I keep lucking out this big."

* * *

Sam's driving Leah home, when a cop car zips past them going the opposite direction, lights flashing but sirens off. Sam turns in the road and starts following. He apologizes to Leah but says he has a bad feeling. The cop car leaves Big Piney town limits and heads north into Marbleton. Sam watches as two more cop cars fall in line ahead of the first, lights on and silent. The dread grows in the pit of Sam's stomach. He slows down as the congregation place comes into view, the three cop cars ahead of him joining another two in front of The Drunk Cattle Bar. Sam parks across the wide street on one of the opposite corners of the T intersection. It's dark out, only a few lights dotting the street, one of them the bar's big fluorescent hang-out sign: a steer shining electric blue inside a green circle of DRUNK above and CATTLE below, the rectangular border a light pink.

"Stay here," Sam says to Leah, reaching into the glove box for his Taurus. It's loaded.

"Sam," she says.

"I have to make sure it's not Dean. And if it isn't, I may still be able to help." He gets out of his truck, tucking the gun into the back of his waistband. He takes a rubber band out of his jacket pocket and pulls his hair back into a ponytail. Peels back one corner of the tarp covering his truck bed and retrieves one of the guns he keeps in cases there. He chooses the .38 special S&W revolver, seven rounds loaded. Goes around to the other side of the truck and give it to Leah.

"Should I call Dean?" Leah asks.

Sam looks across the street at the scene. It's quiet. Eerie quiet. He shakes his head. "No. If he's in there, his phone ringing might cause trouble, and if he's not, I don't want him knowing I'm out here." He steps off the curb and crosses the street, puffing white breaths into the air as he goes.

As Sam reaches the front lot of the bar where the cop cars are parked, he sees four deputies huddled together talking in between two of the cars. One of them looks over at Sam as he comes closer. "Winchester?" he says.

Sam can't remember the guy's name or the names of the others either, but he knows most of the local deputies by face. He remembers these men from the hostage situation at Peace Lutheran last year.

"What are you doing here?" the deputy says.

"You know me," says Sam. "I go where the trouble is. What's happening?"

The deputy looks at his colleagues, then back at Sam. "We got a situation inside."

The men snap their heads toward the bar when a loud noise cuts through the silence outside. Yelling, then two gun shots somewhere behind the building. A few people start running out the front, hurrying down the steps. Sam bolts for the back lot, drawing his gun. One of the deputies shouts his name, but he ignores it.

First thing he sees is the Impala. Parked a few spaces in.

Next, Dean. Arms spread out and palms facing behind him. Bloody lip. Red bruise on his right cheekbone. Jason several yards in front of him with a gun in his hand and the back door to the bar behind him. Bloodshot, watery eyes. No trucker's hat on, his thinning dirty blonde hair exposed. Sam's eyes finally catch on a movement somewhere behind Dean on the other side of a parked car: Kendall, crouching.

"Don't do it," Dean says to Jason, no real seriousness in his voice. "You kill me, and it'll be the worst thing you ever did to yourself."

Jason doesn't answer. He just stares at Dean. Gun in his hand down at his side.

"If you don't rot in state prison, my brother—he'll make sure you take a slow, painful trip straight to Hell. And I've been to Hell, buddy. I don't recommend it."

Jason aims for Dean's head. Sam starts, inhales sharply, but doesn't move.

"Give her up," Jason says.

"She's made her choice," says Dean. "What is it about that you can't understand? I'm not keeping her from you; she doesn't want you!"

Jason pulls the trigger. Dean flinches out of the bullet's path, hits the ground. Sam leaps toward Jason with his own gun trained on the stranger. "Stop!" he barks. "Stop right there!"

Jason makes eye contact with Sam, and Sam feels it again: body pumped full of adrenaline, five senses super heightened, edges of his target sharper in his vision, sophisticated thinking flying out the window. Another experience he put away with hunting.

"Sam," Dean says, sound of his voice registering in Sam's brain only because it's his brother.

"Sam?" Jason echoes. "Sam Winchester."

Sam doesn't speak, acutely aware only of the stranger and the gun in his own hands.

"How could I forget? Dean Winchester's other half."

"Drop your weapon," Sam says.

Jason's still pointing his gun at Dean. But he's looking at Sam. "Heard about you two when I was still a hunter," he says. "Years and years ago. Heard all kinds of nasty things about you, Sam."

"Jason. Please. Drop the weapon, and we can all go home in peace."

"Sam," Dean calls, in that pitch of fear.

Jason looks over in Dean's direction, then back at Sam. Moves his arm to point his gun at Sam's face.

"Sam!" Dean yells.

"Don't," Sam says to Jason. "I'll kill you if I have to, but I don't want to."

"Dean won't give me what I want, maybe I'll just take away something of his."

A few of the deputies finally emerge from around the front of the bar, pointing their weapons at Jason and Sam. They yap at the men to drop their weapons and put their hands in the air.

"You can leave here alive or dead," Sam tells Jason. "Either way, you aren't leaving with Kendall."

Jason pulls the trigger. Sam moves. The bullet burrows into his left shoulder.

"NO!" Dean screams.

Sam drops to the ground on instinct, leaving a clear path for the deputies to take Jason out, but Dean's on the stranger faster than a shark on raw meat. Sam doesn't see it at first, eyes squeezed shut, pain in his shoulder blinding him for a few seconds after his body hits the ground. The deputies are shouting over each other, Kendall's screaming, Sam hears the sounds of everyone's footsteps scraping the ground as he lies there, hand pressed to the wound in his shoulder. He opens his eyes, adjusts his focus, and recognizes the back of his brother's body, pushing Jason up against the door of the bar. Sees the metallic flash of Jason's gun high above the men's heads, their hands and arms flailing for it. They struggle, move along the wall, Dean refusing to give Jason any room.

Dean wrenches the gun out of Jason's hand, throws it away from them toward the deputies, but it's not over. Dean punches Jason in the face, and Sam thinks, _Oh, shit, they're going to have to drag him off._

But then Dean makes a sound—almost like a short groan—and hunches into Jason. Sam can't see the two men clearly from where he's lying, but he watches as his brother, after a brief pause, yanks Jason down onto the ground, stomps on his wrist, and starts kicking him. The deputies swarm on them, going around Sam, blocking his view of Dean.

Sam finally starts sitting up, pressing his palm into the hot bloody wound in his shoulder. Blood's already soaked through his entire left sleeve and the left side of his shirt, staining the inside of his jacket. "Dean," he calls.

Two cops bring his brother out of the crowd….. And Sam feels what little heat he's got left in his body drain clear out, when he sees Dean holding his own hand to a bloody left side. Dean stumbles forward to Sam and sinks to the ground, out of the deputies' grasp, reaching for his brother with his free hand.

"Dean," Sam says, panic skyrocketing in seconds. "Dean, Dean."

Big brother grips Sam's jacket collar in his left hand, face contorting in pain when he does. "Sammy."

Kendall skids to her knees next to them, looking from one wound to the other. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God," she says.

"Get an ambulance!" Sam shouts at the deputies. "My brother's been stabbed!"

Kendall's already got her cell phone out, shaking hands and slippery fingers. Her whole body's trembling. She gets a hold of emergency dispatch.

Dean's got his legs folded under him, one hand pressed to his side and the other holding onto Sam's collar so hard, it would take a pack of Hell Hounds to get him to let go. "You okay?" he says to Sam. "Sammy, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam says, moving from his ass to his knees for better access to his brother. "I'm fine, it's a shoulder wound. Let me see." He reaches for Dean's side, gently peels his brother's hand away, sees the huge dark stain on Dean's shirts. Dean's not wearing his jacket, must've left it in the bar, and it's freezing outside. "Jesus Christ," Sam whispers. "Dean."

"It's okay, Sam." Dean swallows and looks at his brother. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

Sam starts taking off his jacket, saying, "Fuck" and "Son of a bitch" when he moves his bad shoulder to do it.

"No," Dean starts, knowing what Sam's trying to do. "No, you're bleeding."

"So are you!" Sam says, getting the jacket off and bunching it up. He presses it to Dean's side, and Dean hisses.

"Oh, my God," Kendall says again, when she sees how bloody Sam's whole left side is from shoulder to wrist and waist. "Sam."

"Give him your lap," Sam tells her.

She looks at him in confusion.

"Kendall, get behind him, and give him your lap."

She scoots to sit behind Dean with her legs folded beneath her. Sam pushes Dean down slowly, until Dean's lying on the ground with his head pillowed on Kendall's thighs. Sam's still got his jacket pressed hard into Dean's side, staunching the blood. Kendall touches Dean's forehead soothingly, looking down at him.

"Ambulance is coming, Dean," Sam says.

One of the deputies stops just behind Sam and says, "Hang in there, boys. Ambulance doesn't have far to go from the Big Piney clinic."

Sam's got his free hand planted on Dean's chest, over his brother's heart. Dean's eyes close and open intermittently, as Sam tells him to breathe even though it hurts. Dean's heartbeat is steady.

"Sam," Dean says, sounding the way he did when he was twenty-seven years old, bleeding out in that cabin with Sam and their possessed father. "You're bloody."

"It's not as bad as it looks," Sam reassures. "Just my shoulder, Dean. Ambulance is coming. Don't worry about me. Relax."

Dean covers Sam's hand on his chest with his own hand, closes his eyes and swallows. As if he's grounding himself through the feel of Sam's body. Sam starts to hear the ambulance sirens and silently thanks God.

"Cas is going to freak out," Dean murmurs.

"You stupid jerk," Sam says. "You didn't need to jump Jason. The cops could've shot him."

"He hurt you. I was afraid he—" Dean curls his hand around Sam's a little bit, as if to reassure himself Sam's there.

Sam's mouth goes dry. Dean's hand is cold, and he can't tell if it's from being outside this long or the blood loss or both. "We're going to make it. Promise me we're going to make it."

Dean looks at him, eyes and face brimming with vulnerability. Sam's chest aches all over again. They don't say another word to each other until the paramedics rush over with a pair of gurneys and strap them on.

* * *

The knife missed all of Dean's major organs. The blade wasn't long enough to cause too much damage. Add it to the list of miracles in the Winchesters' lives. Dean stays in the clinic for ten days, on morphine and antibiotics. Sam's with him every day, let off work because of his shoulder. Castiel's there most of the time too, when he's not working. Kendall and Leah each visit a handful of times, bringing the boys pie and lemon cookies respectively. Dean watches a lot of TV, and Sam reads: hospital magazines and newspapers, articles online, and the books Cas brings him. The nurses put a second bed in Dean's room, so Sam can sleep there. One of the perks of a small town.

Dean doesn't protest when they insist on rolling him out to Sam's truck in a wheelchair, on the day of his release. He's still in pain, although it's bearable with Ibuprofen. Castiel drives because fuck if Sam is going to turn a steering wheel with that bad shoulder, pain meds or not. Sam rides in the backseat, giving Dean the front. When they arrive on their property, Castiel goes around to help Dean get out of the truck and takes him inside with Dean's arm around his shoulders and Castiel's arm around Dean's back. Dean's already on the sofa in the sitting room by the time Sam comes in.

"God," Dean says. "It is good to be home."

Sam smiles. "You're telling me."

Shooter's got his face all over Dean's knees, tail wagging fast. Dean pets the top of the beagle's head.

"Are you hungry?" Castiel asks the brothers.

Sam looks at Dean, and Dean looks back with a shrug.

"There any fruit in the fridge?" Sam asks.

Castiel looks. "No."

"You haven't been to the store lately, have you?"

The angel shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it, I'll go tomorrow," Sam says. He opens up the pantry and finds the bag of sliced bread still good. He grabs the peanut butter too. Cas makes the sandwiches, while Sam sits down in his chair next to the sitting room sofa. Dean's already got the television on.

Jason Oldham's long gone, transported to jail in Casper four hours away. He'll be charged with three counts of attempted murder, multiple counts of assault, arson, and resisting arrest. The boys don't care what he's charged with, as long as he spends the next several years of his life in prison.

* * *

That night they lie together in Dean's bed, Sam warm all along Dean's hurt side and Dean falling asleep with his face on Sam's good shoulder. It's the first time they've shared a bed or cuddled in about two weeks, and it sets the last of things right for Sam. He realizes, as he stares at the ceiling in the dark, that he's not afraid anymore.

He closes his eyes to the sound of his brother breathing. Slips into a dream where he and Dean are on the side of a two-lane highway with nothing but flat land in every direction. Blue sky and yellow fields. They're younger. Sitting on the Impala having a beer together. He makes Dean laugh out loud.

Sam doesn't remember the dream in the morning—but he wakes up happy.


End file.
